What Dreams Are Made Of
by JBS-Forever
Summary: In which Sam has a meltdown because nothing in the world wants to let him sleep. One-shot.


**A one-shot I wrote because nothing in the world wants to let _me_ sleep and I figured if I gave Sam a meltdown, I wouldn't have one myself. **

**Please excuse any spelling and or grammar mistakes. This was written late at night over the period of many nights. It could be really terrible. I don't know.**

 **Anyway...**

 **Enjoy?**

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It's three in the morning when Dean throws his lighter into the open casket and everything goes up in flames. Sam struggles under the grip of the ghost as his vision dances in front of him. Just as he's about to run out of oxygen, the fingers around his throat turn to ashes and he collapses to his knees.

"Sam!"

There are hands on him a moment later, cupping his face. Wearily, he looks up.

"Good timing," he mutters.

Dean rolls his eyes.

It's a three-day hunt that should have ended the day they drove into this little town. But their research had been sloppy, Dean had been too interested in that quirky blonde girl from the diner, and Sam was tired. So very tired.

Still tired.

But Dean won't let him sleep. The ghost threw Sam headfirst into a tombstone and now his pupils are uneven and he can't walk straight, so Dean pumps him full of caffeine and sugar to keep him awake until he's in the safe zone. They stay up all night in their dingy hotel room and patch wounds and check for serious damages. Sam tries to tell Dean that you don't need to keep concussed people awake, but Dean threatens to take him to the hospital if he opens his mouth one more time, so Sam settles into silence and hopes his brother doesn't notice when he starts to drift.

Dean does. He seems to change tactics, waking Sam every two hours instead of keeping him awake. Even with a stomach full of things that should be giving him energy, Sam is sleepy and annoyed when Dean shakes him.

Eventually Dean falls asleep, letting Sam get a solid three hours of rest before he's woken by a car alarm going off in the parking lot. It wails and screams and drives itself into his brain. Sam isn't sure when he became a light sleeper, but he is. He never used to be. He could sleep through fireworks when he was little. Now he can't even sleep through a door closing in the room next to him.

Dean, on the other hand, sleeps with selective hearing. He wakes carefully to signs of threats. His hand slips under his pillow to grab the pistol always hidden there and he stays motionless and quiet until he can determine if he needs to step into action. Car alarms are not threats. Not to Dean, anyway. The Impala has no alarm.

Sam sits up with a groan. His head throbs in time with his heart beat. He stumbles to the door and yanks it open. An old man is fumbling with his keys, pressing buttons frantically, trying to make the alarm stop. Sam knows he must look like a wreck himself, but he approaches the man and gives him a smile before asking if he can help.

A minute later, the alarm is off and Sam is climbing back into bed and willing the ache in his head to calm long enough to let him lose consciousness. He lays in bed for an hour, maybe more, and just as he's about to fall asleep he hears Dean moving through the room.

"Wakey wakey," Dean says.

Sam tries to ignore him. Dean shakes him once, hard.

"Get up, Sam. Come on. We gotta get moving."

Sam shoves him away. "You kept me up all night. Let me sleep."

"Sleep in the car," Dean says. "Besides, I had to be awake all night, too. Don't be a baby."

Sam grumbles under his breath, but he gets up and packs his bags and follows Dean to the car.

"How are you feeling?" Dean asks as they drive. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"None," Sam says. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are. Hey, what's the capital of Ohio? You know, just for educational purposes."

"Shut up."

Dean chuckles at him and turns the radio up. Sam thinks he might be purposely trying to keep him awake. He hates Dean just a little bit.

XxX

A day later they drive into a new town. A new hunt. Dean thinks it's a witch. Sam thinks it's a tulpa. Sam only thinks that because he doesn't care. He just wants to kill it and be done with it. He just wants to go home.

They spend a long time interviewing and researching through old library books. Sam's head aches and he can't focus for long. He knows he shouldn't be straining his eyes so much. Shouldn't be straining his _brain_ so much. Not so soon after his concussion.

Dean must be able to see his distress because he calls it a night before it's night. They head back to the hotel room and Sam collapses on the bed as he listens to Dean shuffle around the room. As Sam reaches the edge of consciousness, something slams against the table and startles him awake, pain flaring behind his temples.

"Dean," he moans in frustration. He peels open his eyes to glare, but Dean is ghostly white, one hand wrapped around his stomach. Sam sits up quickly. "Dean?"

"It's a witch," Dean grits out between clenched teeth. He lets out a strangled cry and drops to his knees.

Sam tears the room apart. Punches through walls, spills open bags, tears apart furniture. Dean spits up blood and coughs and chokes. Sam tries to help, but he can't find the bag. Can't fix whatever is happening inside Dean's body.

He's about to run out the door and find the witch himself when suddenly Dean's coughing eases up and fades into harsh breaths.

"I should have known you boys are always at the center of everything," a familiar voice says.

Sam turns to find Crowley standing by the door.

"What're you doing here?" he asks.

Crowley purses his lips. "What, no 'thank you'? Not even a hello? I really expected better manners from you two."

Dean grips Sam's arm and uses it to push himself back on his heels.

"Excuse us for being a little less than thrilled to see you," he mutters. "Why're you here?"

"Simple," Crowley says. "Because all deals must come to a close."

"What does that mean?"

Crowley fingers a painting on the wall and tips it so it's hanging sideways. He closes the door behind him, glancing around their room. "Interesting place you've got here. Very roomy. That witch you've been hunting is a little friend of mine. Sold her soul to us years ago. Ten years, if you want to be exact."

Dean pulls himself slowly to his feet, using Sam as support. "So you came to collect your debt? I thought the hounds did your dirty work for you."

Crowley's lips twitch in a smile. "You could say that. You could also say it was a bit personal."

"Spare me the details. I've had enough of _Young and the Crowley_ for a lifetime."

"For your information," Crowley says. "It's _Crowley and the Restless._ And you could be a bit nicer. I did just save your life, after all."

There's a brief moment of silence. Dean wipes at the blood on his chin, one arm wrapped around his stomach.

"You're quiet, Moose," Crowley says. "What's wrong? Did a little leprechaun try to take your charms?"

Sam rolls his eyes, but the action sends a spark of pain up to his aching head. He winces, once, and it's enough to make Crowley narrow his eyes suspiciously. Sam bites back a groan.

"Well, this has been fun, and I can see you both are rather chatty, but I need to go visit people who will actually appreciate my presence," Crowley says. "See you soon, boys." And with a snap of his fingers, he's gone.

Sam rubs a hand over his face as he turns to Dean. He can feel pain throbbing behind his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Dean says. "Still in one piece, anyway."

"And does everything feel...you know, _right_ inside? No internal bleeding? No pain?"

Dean ducks into the bathroom. Sam hears him turn on the faucet, and a moment later, his muffled voice comes back.

"I'm fine, Sam. Get some sleep."

"You too."

"Oh trust me." Dean emerges a few seconds later and kicks off his shoes. "I will."

And he does, but Sam doesn't. He stays awake and listens to Dean's slow and steady breaths. He can't stop thinking about how close of a call it was. The witch had caught onto them. Knew they were looking for her. If Crowley hadn't shown up when he did, Dean could be dead.

There were too many close calls lately. Too many times Sam was left to wonder what he would do without Dean. If he'd be able to handle it again. He wished that, for once, they could just stop. Stop hunting and stay in the bunker and make it a home. Ignore everything else and stay where they were safe. Where they didn't have to worry about what might attack them when they stepped out their door.

But Sam knows they would never be able to do it. With so much evil in the world, it had become their job to stop it. To stop what they could. It was engraved in their bones. _Fight. Save. Win._

Morning comes in the blink of an eye. Sam leaves early, before Dean wakes, to fill his blood with coffee and food. Anything to keep him moving.

They check out at nine, once Sam is sure Dean is okay and there are no lingering side effects. It's a two day drive back to the bunker and Dean wants to stop tomorrow for another case.

"Friend of Bobby's called me up," he says. "Sounds like a simple case. Probably a ghost. We can be in and out like that."

"Yeah, sure," Sam mutters. He slumps against the door and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"You all right?"

"Yeah." He doesn't tell Dean that his head is a constant ache and his eyes are burning and everything kind of feels like it's moving in slow motion.

Dean turns the radio down. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"I dunno," Sam says. "Some."

"Well you look like hell."

"Thanks."

"We'll stop soon and get some real food," Dean says. "I figure we'll drive until dark and grab a hotel room somewhere. Then you can nap all you want, Sleeping Beauty."

Sam makes a sound in his throat. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back until it touches the seat.

"You know what's weird?" he asks, the ends of his words slurring together.

"What?"

"That Crowley keeps showing up when we're in trouble."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Better than no one, I guess."

"I guess so," Sam mutters.

He falls into a place between being awake and asleep. He can hear Dean humming to himself, the radio a soft sound in the background as the Impala's wheels on the pavement send vibrations through his body.

Dean is shaking him awake a second later.

"Rise and shine, Princess."

Sam peels open his eyes and looks around. They're sitting outside a diner, the sun moving in the sky above them.

"What time is it?" Sam asks.

"Eleven," Dean says, pushing open his door.

Sam glances at his watch. One hour since he'd closed his eyes.

Wearily, he follows Dean into the diner and sits across from him at a booth. He orders the healthiest thing on the menu while Dean grabs every sugary and fat thing he can find.

"We're all going to hell anyway," Dean says. "Might as well enjoy the ride down."

Sam wants to roll his eyes, but he thinks better of it.

The food comes fifteen minutes later when Dean is in the bathroom. Their waitress – a nice, older lady named Edna, asks Sam if he's all right. He tries to give her a convincing smile, but both of them know it's fake.

When Dean returns, Sam is falling asleep, elbow resting against the table, one hand smashed against his cheek. Dean throws a wrapped slice of butter at him.

"Sam," he says. "Dude, you're falling asleep in your child's salad."

Sam glares at him. "It's not a _child's_ salad."

"Sure it's not," Dean says. "But seriously, Sam."

"Seriously what?"

"I'm gonna need that butter back."

This time he does roll his eyes, and he throws the butter back at Dean in an attempt to mask the wince passing over his face. Dean either doesn't notice or doesn't say anything – something Sam is grateful for.

They leave the diner after Dean finishes his two slices of pie and Sam leaves a tip on the table, giving Edna a polite nod as they pass. Sam swears, just for a moment, that it looks like Edna is sorry to see him go. But he blames it on the lack of sleep and follows Dean to the car.

"You wanna get some more sleep?" Dean asks. "We've still got a while to go before we stop again."

Sam cringes, thinking about the long stretch of road before them. "You've been driving a lot. Do you want to switch?"

He's not really sure why he offers, and he figures Dean must not be sure either.

"Just shut up and sleep," Dean says.

Sam curls against the door, but his head is starting to pound again and he doesn't think he'll be able to sleep through it.

He's right. He tries for a long time, but every sound is magnified, every bump and vibration too intense to ignore. When even Dean's breathing starts to annoy him, he gives up on the idea of sleep entirely and yanks himself up in the seat.

"Sleep well?" Dean asks.

Sam glares at him.

He loses track of time as the hours pass by. Dean talks to him occasionally, but Sam's brain is too fuzzy and clouded to hold a conversation for long. He tries to sleep a few more times and feels like crying when he can't. He's uncomfortable, his long limbs cramped into the small space in front of the seat. He shifts and tries to stretch out with no relief.

Night comes at seven. It's the only time Sam is grateful the sun goes down so early in the winter. Dean pulls them off the highway and up to a motel with a flashing red sign that tells them the place is empty. Well, empty enough.

They rent a room and load their bags inside.

"You wanna get something for dinner?" Dean asks.

Sam shakes his head and collapses on the bed.

"All right." Dean snatches the keys off the table. "I'll bring you back something."

Sam listens as the door clicks closed behind him. He shuts his eyes tight against the pain pulsing in his head. Nausea rises in his stomach and pushes up and up until he's forced to roll off the bed and dive for the toilet.

Every heave makes his head hurt worse. He moans and throws an arm over his eyes, breathing deep through his nose. He thinks he must black out for a moment, because the next thing he knows, Dean is knocking on the bathroom door.

"Sam?" he calls. "You all right in there? You need a match?"

Sam swallows hard. "I'm fine."

His voice must sound as bad as he thinks it does, because Dean hesitates a few seconds.

"I brought you some food. Got that healthy, pansy stuff you like."

Sam can't imagine eating with the way he feels, but he swallows again and attempts to push himself to his feet. He pulls open the door and stumbles out.

"Jesus, Sam." Dean is standing at the table, pulling cartons of food out of plastic bags. "You look like you did a round with Tyson."

"Hmm." Sam moves past him and carefully slides onto the bed. "I could beat Tyson."

Dean barks out a laugh. "Tyson would you destroy in three seconds flat."

"Young Tyson, maybe," Sam mutters, burying his face in his pillow. "But not now."

"Okay, delirious. Keep dreaming."

Sam would love to dream, but it seems to him that the universe hates him. When he finally manages to bypass the pain and drift away, he's woken by Dean's cell phone ringing. He listens to his brother talk quietly, as if doing so will let Sam sleep. But it doesn't. It's not until after Dean has hung up the phone that Sam starts to drift again and then is woken by noisy neighbors moving into the room next to theirs. Then trucks honking greetings to each other as they pass on the highway. Then Dean snoring because he fell asleep on his back again and how many times does Sam have to tell him not to do that?

As night turns to morning, Sam finds it harder to get through the pain. A dog starts barking outside their door. People wake for breakfast and talk as they walk by. Sam's not sure when they arrived, but he hates them all for being there.

And then, as soon as he knows it, Dean is awake and getting ready to leave, and Sam has never left the space between reality and sleep.

"The hunt is a few hours out," Dean tells him. "You can stay here. I'll come back for you after."

Sam finally manages to make his limbs move. He rubs at his puffy eyes.

"It's okay," he says hoarsely. "I'm okay. I'll sleep in the car."

But of course Sam doesn't sleep in the car. He keeps his eyes closed and tries desperately not to throw up all over the interior.

The ghost case ends up being anything but easy. Dean gets caught at the tail end of the violence, and Sam has to break through walls in the house to find where the body is stashed. It takes too much time. Dean ends up getting thrown into a cabinet before Sam salts the bones and sends their ghostly friend up in flames.

Sam helps pull him to his feet.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," Dean says roughly. "Good timing."

Sam nods once and then his stomach lurches. His entire fight goes up in flames with the bones and he stumbles before doubling over and throwing up on the floor. A steady grip on his arm keeps him from collapsing.

"Sam?" Dean asks. "You all right?"

Sam wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and tears spring into his eyes. "No."

"What's wrong? Are you sick?"

Sam shakes his head and pulls away from him.

"I can't do this," he says.

Dean gives him a cautious look, one filled with surprise and concern. His green eyes are nearly glowing in the dim lighting. "Do what, Sammy?"

"I'm tired of all these close calls," he says, choking on the tears sliding down his throat. He motions around widely. "I'm tired of you getting hurt. I'm tired of this life. I just – "

Dean raises his hands in surrender, taking a step closer. "Okay, calm down. I'm fine, Sam. Look. I'm fine."

"What if Crowley hadn't shown up?" Sam asks. "What if I hadn't found the bones in time?"

"But you did find them. You always do."

"What if one day I don't?"

"Then we'll deal with that when it comes," Dean says. He closes the distance between them and rests his hands on Sam's shoulders. "Sammy, you and I always have each other's backs. If you hadn't found the bones, we would've done something else. You know that."

Sam pulls in a breath that sounds like a sob. "What am I supposed to do, Dean?"

"About what?"

"I can't lose you again." Sam hiccups against another sob. He knows he's edging toward hysteria, but he can't figure out why. He can't figure out where all this is coming from. "It was so hard the first time. I don't think I can handle it again. I can't, Dean. I just can't."

"You're not gonna lose me," Dean says gently. "I'm still here. All in one piece. I'm still that handsome, rugged brother of yours. Okay? You're not gonna lose me."

Sam licks over his cracked lips and nods. "Okay. I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Dean releases him, but doesn't move back. Sam wipes at the tears that won't stop falling. He's still breaking.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I'm just so tired. I don't – I don't know why I'm– "

"I know, Sammy," Dean says. "Let's get out of here and get you some sleep."

"We're still half a days drive from home," Sam says, and the tears pour harder at the thought. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Don't worry about that," Dean says. "Come on."

He puts a hand on Sam's back and helps guide him through the dark house. Outside, the Impala glows in the sunlight, welcoming Sam into her comfort. Dean starts the engine and it rumbles gently under their feet.

Sam pushes his fingers into his eyes, willing both the pain and the tears to stop.

"Does your head hurt?" Dean asks.

Sam nods.

"Is that why you haven't been sleeping?"

"No," he says. "Well, kind of. Everything has been really loud. And we've been doing a lot."

Dean growls. "I knew we should've gotten your head looked at."

"It's just a concussion, Dean."

"Tell that to the version of you having a meltdown right now," Dean mutters.

Sam tries again to wipe away his tears. He feels like he's lost all control of his emotions. He just wants his head to stop hurting. He just wants to sleep for a month.

Dean reaches over and squeezes his knee. "Hey."

"What?" Sam asks.

"I'm sorry," Dean says. "I know you're tired. We'll be there soon."

They pull off the highway ten minutes later. Dean drives them deep through the town, away from the city life and noises. They find a little motel and Dean buys them a room on the top floor, far away from the lobby and any people who could be walking by. He makes Sam sit on one of the beds while he digs around in his bag.

"Here," he says, dropping a few pills into Sam's hand.

Sam eyes them wearily. "What are they?"

"Effective," Dean says. "And don't give me that face. Take them."

Sam's too tired to argue. He swallows them and then kicks off his shoes, sliding back to bury his face in the scratchy motel pillow. Dean bustles around the room, ripping the covers off the other bed. Sam watches him move to the window.

"What're you doing?" he asks.

"Winning the 'Brother of the Year' award," Dean says. He pins one side of the comforter above the right panel of the window and then pulls it across, pinning down the other side on the left. It sends the room into darkness, easing the pain in Sam's head.

There's a dull thud a moment later. Dean lets out a swear.

"You okay?" Sam calls.

"Just dandy," Dean mutters. He flips on the light on the table. "Sorry. I need to grab a few things."

"'s all right."

Dean casts him a glance. "Those pills kicking in, Sammy?"

"Mmm." Sam closes his eyes and sinks further into the pillow. His head is starting to feel light, airy almost.

"Stay with me just a second," Dean says.

Sam hears him fumble in his bag again and then there's a tapping on his face. He opens his eyes to see Dean kneeling in front of him, holding up a pistol.

"See this? It's on the nightstand, okay?" Dean says, setting it down. "I'm gonna head out and run a few errands. Call me if it gets too noisy here."

"'kay."

Dean smiles and pats his cheek. "Good. Get some rest."

Dean stands and moves back to the table, flipping off the light.

"Dean?" Sam asks sleepily.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Thanks."

And even though Sam can't see his face, he knows Dean flashes a smile.

"No problem, kid. Go to sleep."

Sam closes his eyes. For the first time in what feels like forever, he lets the darkness take over, welcoming the sleep he's missed so badly.

"Good timing, Dean," he whispers.


End file.
